Velvet Waltz
by attendezalacreme
Summary: In 1943 Paris, a Jewish American spy's world unravels when Standartenführer Hans Landa makes the dangerous, inexplicable decision to save her life. Alliances shatter and loyalties bend as fate draws them closer together, forcing both to question: who can you really trust?
1. Prologue

"_Your story's so touching, it sounds just like a lie." _– Nat King Cole

Prologue

[March 1943 – Paris]

This was the best part. The delivery. Leaning into the wind, gears whirring, letting the momentum carry her further and further. Standing up on the petals, her skirt whipping around and the late winter wind cutting right through her jacket, all speed and purpose until her face was flushed and her eyes ran and no one, not even God himself, could stop her. It felt like flight, like freedom, a rare sensation, indeed, these days.

Emboldened by speed, she sang that song that had been all over the radio before she left home:

_Straighten up and fly right _

_Straighten up and fly right_

_Straighten up and fly right_

_Cool down, papa, don't you blow your top _

Greta Van Horn was a Swiss art student, New York educated, and now studying landscape painting in Paris. She worked at a café near 84 Avenue Foch, providing coffee and small talk to the SS officers headquartered there. She was 25, unmarried, and thought the Nazis were just swell.

Greta was simply a nice blonde Swiss girl who loved art and riding her bicycle very very fast. She wouldn't dream of being born in Illinois to a Jewish father and Catholic mother, moving to New York after college, befriending an agent-in-training, and volunteering for espionage missions overseas in Nazi-occupied France. _Non, c'est ridicule. _

And sweet young Greta wouldn't be caught dead smuggling clandestine tapes of SS meetings out of Paris to a pre-arranged drop off point from whence they would be smuggled north to the coast and across the channel to England. Pure baloney.

Her drop-off complete, and her calves beginning to hum, she pedaled back into town, gliding to a stop outside the Café l'Etoile, a dingy little bar with bad food and the cheapest drinks in the arondissement. Most importantly, there were never any Germans inside.

"Greta! Love of my wretched life!" shouted Alain as she staggered in. Alain was a slim and handsome young homosexual man from London, and could make the rattiest suit look like a magazine ad. He spun her around in a hug, and brought her to their table in the back.

Her comrades' whoops and cheers made her blush a little. They had all been courageous that day, and successfully completed their share of Operation Canary. This was a celebration of that…and a going away party for George and Sibyl, who were returning to England to be married.

Everyone was there: Anne-Marie, the poet/courier, taking long drags on a hand-rolled cig while Edward, the philosopher (and main radio operator) rattled on about some Camus he'd just read. Bunny, the firecracker whose entire job was to seduce secrets out of the more gullible Gestapo, was telling some filthy story about her latest escapade. Alain's boyfriend, Philippe, the French Resistance go-between, kissed each of Greta's cheeks and beckoned the entire bench to scoot down for her.

Greta was the eldest of the bunch, the most recent recruit, and the only American. The recruiting officers had been impressed by her knack for languages and accents. Yet, she had been placed in the café to eavesdrop, while her younger comrades got far more dangerous assignments. She had hoped to move up to courier permanently, but her commander turned her down.

Round after round of drinks appeared. Who exactly was going to pay for these? Greta thought, nursing a single ale. And they were getting dangerously close to curfew, she noticed. Maybe an hour from sundown. As she often did, in her position as the eldest, she decided to stay sober for her comrades' sake.

The strains of a Marlene Dietrich song suddenly cut through the conversation. Lise, at 20 the baby of the group, stood up on the bench to sing along. What she lacked in god-given talent, she made up for with charisma, and most of the group cheered her on.

Alain scooted in closer to Greta and whispered, "So what's next for you, _mon chou?"_

Greta shrugged. "I dunno. I'm still at the café."

"Anything good?" he pressed.

"Not yet. They don't exactly go there to talk military movements. It's mostly gossip, who's screwing who. Those SS fuckers are real horndogs….what about you?"

"You mean, speaking of horndogs?" Alain tapped his cigarette ash into the nearest tray and sighed dramatically. "Might go home and see my nan, might not." This was sarcasm. His family had disowned him years ago.

"I'm sure they'll find something for you to do," Greta nearly shouted over Lise's trilling soprano. "Shit, get into radio. They always need more of those."

"That'd be a hell of a promotion," Alain chuckled. Still, he was working at the Gestapo headquarters. Why complain about washing dishes when you got to be _right in the middle _of the action? Making a real difference in the war? Not pouring coffee and feigning interest in Standartenführer Landa's latest conquests.

She wished she could remember what they said next. She wished she could remember all of her comrades exactly as they were in that afterglow, laughing and drinking and singing, before Lise suddenly pointed and screamed. Before Greta's eyes landed on the hissing grenade.

The blast registered as heat. An overpowering roar of flames that threw her so hard, so fast, she never registered pain, only the sensation of her tongue flopping pointlessly in her mouth as she was thrown backward. A heavy blow. Then nothing.


	2. Lost and Found

She came to in total darkness, and her first panicked thought was of missing curfew. Her second thought was the excruciating pain in her back and leg. Then, she realized she couldn't move her leg, because it was under rubble. She was trapped.

Shit.

The moon was full. She marveled at how brightly it illuminated the blown-out café, then registered that it was coming in through the ceiling. Through the piece of the ceiling that now pinned her back half to the floor.

The waitress who had brought all those rounds to their table lay facedown a few yards away, blood pooled around her torso. Greta's heart clenched.

But what of her comrades? She couldn't see much from where she was but she didn't see any other bodies.

"H…hello?" she ventured weakly. "Anyone there?" No answer.

There was no freeing her legs. And no use wasting energy on it when she might be stuck here for a long time. Just my damn luck, she thought. The only Jewish member, and I'm practically being served to the Gestapo on a platter. Her thoughts drifted to the little capsule tucked in a pocket she'd sewn into her bra. The L-pill, that every agent carried in case of capture. Cyanide.

She had no intention of dying that night, but she also had zero intention of being tortured by Nazis.

What were the chances OSS heard of the blast in time and sent their ops first? She had no choice but to wait and see.

It wasn't a long wait before the sound of tires on cobblestones turned her head back to the blown out wall. Only German officers were allowed to drive after dark. Or had OSS beat them to the punch?

Ah, no. They were definitely speaking German. Oh shit. Oh god. This is it. Captured. Here we go. She gave another cursory attempt at wriggling free. No dice.

The sweeping beam of a flashlight announced the officers' arrival, and Greta went limp. What else was there to do?

"Collect evidence, anything we can use," came a stern voice in Austrian-accented German, which seemed to belong to a trench-coated figure. She didn't recognize him from her café. But the way his men scurried to obey him, he must be important.

The figure approached the waitress, and nudged her corpse with the toe of his boot. "Pity. So young." Greta was next. She quickly shut her eyes and went as limp as possible as his boots approached.

"Ooh, what have we here?" He sounded like a child on Christmas morning. She waited for the toe of the boot, but it didn't come.

The flashlight beam directly on her face did. And she cringed. Son of a bitch.

A little gasp of delight. "A survivor!" He snapped his fingers, and yet more boots came running. Well, shit, might as well look her captor in the eye.

She knew immediately from the oak leaves on his collar and the death's head on his cap that her fate was in the hands of a Standartenführer of the SS. His eyes glittered.

An animal scream tore through her windpipe and, strangled by sheer willpower, escaped her lips as a pitiful whimper. So much for bravery.

He stooped and turned her head with a leather gloved hand, then traced a line in the air in front of her eyes. It made her dizzy to follow it. "Concussion," the officer clucked. His men now surrounded him, like vultures eyeballing a meal.

"Lift it," the man commanded and the SS officers carefully hoisted the piece of ceiling from her battered legs. With lightning speed, her legs were free, she was rolled onto her stomach, her hands were cuffed behind her back, then the Standartenführer scooped her up in his arms, and started to carry her outside.

Now was her chance. She wrenched her body one way, then the other, flopping like a fish out of water. Bit his arm but only got a mouthful of leather. The officer responded by squeezing her closer to his torso.

"I've got you," he whispered to her, boots crunching frost in a steady rhythm. "Save your strength."

A few curt words to his driver, and she was in the backseat of the officer's sleek black Mercedes. The leather seat was cold and she suddenly aware of how stiff and painful her entire body was as she was laid against the opposite door. Her captor removed his leather gloves and began to manipulate her legs, feeling from the ankles up. She sucked through her teeth at each tender spot.

"Hmm," the officer muttered. "Bruised but not broken."

"At least introduce yourself before copping a feel," she snarled.

He paused. "Oh, forgive me. I get so caught up in the details. I am Colonel Hans Landa of the SS."

He presented a hand, as if to shake hers. She stared, still cuffed.

"Ah, yes. And what might your name be?"

She glared. Landa nodded, plunged his hand right into the pocket of her coat and fished out her wallet. That bastard!

"Greta Van Horn," he said. "Hmmph. Unlikely. Twenty-five? Swiss?"

"Yes."

The car began to move. She tried to sit up but immediately recoiled in pain.

Landa placed a firm hand on her knee. "Nothing to fear, Fraulein. We're just going somewhere to have a little talk. I know you have so much to tell me." Did he have to smile at her like that?

If they keep me cuffed, she thought in the somewhat slurred manner of the concussed, I can't take my pill. They're going to torture me. They'll torture everything out of me and leave me to rot in a ditch. She thought of her comrades, her creaky little bed that she would never sleep in again. She thought of the extra-chewy bagels she used to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge for on weekends, smoked salmon and lox. Her small and boring life in New York, the pride she felt after completing her OSS training. Her beloved Manhattan skyline shrinking as the naval ship carried her away, forever. She felt…relatively okay for someone about to be tortured to death.

And still Landa's hand rested on her leg. She kicked it away.

* * *

For a supposedly "dead" fandom, this is getting way more traffic than I ever expected. Thank you so much to everyone reading, please review if you can! This is going to be a long, slow burn with plenty of twists, stay tuned…


	3. The Interrogation

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

Greta, still handcuffed, squinted at Landa through the glare of the overhead lamp, and shook her head.

She watched him pack his meerschaum pipe with nimble fingers. He was in no rush, apparently. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of herself in what was surely a two-way mirror. She looked, appropriately, like hell.

So this was an SS interrogation. She imagined the iron gates of her mind swinging closed, and her sweet, dumb cover identity taking over. Like a lobotomy.

"Well, then," Landa finally began. "Name?"

"Greta Van Horn," she dutifully replied.

Landa frowned. "Born?"

"1918, in Luc-"

"STOP! STOP AT ONCE!" Landa shouted so fiercely she jumped. "No more of this desecration! You are not Swiss. This accent is as "Swiss" as Mickey Mouse. It is, frankly, very offensive."

"But I"-

"None of the music of the Alps." He sniffed with contempt. "More _goat_ than alphorn."

A pause.

"Pardonez moi-" she tried.

"You're an American, yes?" Landa said in flawless English. "We'll continue in English. Is that acceptable to you?"

She felt her years of study, those grueling night courses in French and German, evaporate into nothing. Ditto her cover. She could not have felt more naked if she were stripped and spread-eagled.

Landa leaned in closer. "What is that…sound, anyway? Those flat vowels. Like the terrain. Midwest? …Illi-noys?"

She focused harder than she ever had in her life.

He chuckled and took another puff on his pipe. "I'm just teasing. I know it's Illi-noy."

Did he know where she was born? Or a lucky guess?

His eyes were studying her face. Memorizing it. "Not Greta. You're not a Greta. Perhaps…Sarah. Or Rachel."

Her stomach turned to ice.

Landa stood, strode around the table, and observed her face from the side. Her nose. She'd always been told she didn't "look" Jewish, but that nose of hers was as loud as a brass band. He paused, tilted his head. "Hannah? Am I getting warm?"

"Ice cold."

"No matter," he continued, circling the table in the other direction. "What I'm most curious about, however, is your unmarried status."

She couldn't believe what she heard. "Excuse me?"

"It's a fair question. How does a lovely girl like yourself end up unwed and undercover in a foreign country?"

"I'm not….it's not a priority for me right now."

Landa stopped. "But it was, at one time."

"No. I put my career first."

"Until you met him."

She was visibly shaking. "You know nothing about my life."

The Standartenführer zeroed in for the kill. "You were so sure of him, weren't you? And he hurt you. Deeply. Humiliated you. Left you for another woman. Left you to clean up the mess. You must've felt so alone. So abandoned."

She felt like she was going to be ill. He had opened up her up right there on the table, like a dissection. And every hurt and shame was on hideous display.

Landa stood behind her and took her shoulders in his steady hands. "You saw your dreams dissolve. So it was easy to run away, risk your life, fight a war on the other side of the world. It all makes sense now."

Tears rapidly filled her eyes, and of course, he noticed. Congrats, she thought. You broke me. You goddamned asshole.

"I have so much more than that," she stammered. "Than him."

"Smart girl like you?" he said, pulling his handkerchief from the pocket of his grey SS uniform. "I don't doubt it."

He stooped and began to gently dab at her tear-dampened cheek with the handkerchief. The absurd tenderness of the gesture undid her.

"I swear I'm good at this," she sniffled.

"You're doing wonderfully." Landa held the handkerchief to her nose. "Blow."

She gave a half-hearted honk. "Please just break my kneecaps, Herr Landa. At least I was trained for that."

He waved this away. She got the sense he didn't need to use physical torture.

"I don't mean to inflict further distress, but I must ask you," Landa ventured, returning to his seat. "Your comrades at the café."

She tried to remain stoic. "What comrades?"

His steely eyes bore into hers from a "don't play this game" angle. "None of your comrades were found at the scene."

He must have registered her immediate relief.

"It's very bizarre. Why did none of them rescue you?"

This thought genuinely had not occurred to her yet. "They must've ran, I'm sure they just didn't see me…"

"I saw you immediately from the doorway," Landa corrected.

Her head spun. "No, no, they wouldn't abandon me. They're smart. They know what they're doing."

Landa put up his hands. "I was only making an observation."

"You can't turn me against my own," she spat. But the damage was done, and her heart was in freefall.

A long, tense silence followed while she imagined her fellow agents calling her house, cycling around Paris looking for her, reaching out across resistance networks, leaving notes at their usual dead drops only she could decipher…or they weren't. But surely they were.

Smoke from Landa's frankly ridiculous pipe curled ominously towards the lamp.

"Can I ask you a question?" she finally said.

Landa gave a tight-lipped smile. "What would you like to know?"

"Germany invaded your country. They were the enemy of your people. Why did you join them?"

He set his pipe on the table very slowly. "They offered me a job. A good job, tailored to my skill set."

"Yeah, hunting Jews. Killing innocent people. Some job."

"I'm a detective," he warned. "And the crucial difference between us, Fraulein, is that I like to be on the winning team."

"What if you chose the wrong side?" she pushed, exhilarated by her own ballsiness.

"I will cross that bridge if I come to it," he said, standing. "But I am quite good at winning. Almost as good as I am at finding enemies of the state who think they're clever."

A solid 10 seconds of eye contact before Landa signaled the guards.

"What happens now?" she asked as steadily as she could.

"You're our prisoner," Landa whispered, leaning in close. "Now, go to your room and think about what you've done."

His eyes never left hers as the guards roughly pulled her from the chair and dragged her from the room.


	4. The Hunter

Lipstick-smeared cigarettes. A scrawled-on bar napkin. A crusted fork. A dark curly hair. And piles and piles of reports, mostly worthless.

Vexingly, they didn't know who had thrown the grenade. No action had been planned that night. Not a single Gestapo unit took responsibility. Which meant someone on their side was withholding.

Hans Landa steepled his fingers. The constellation of evidence scattered across his desk had been painstakingly gathered by his best men. The intelligence reports had been extracted, some violently, from prisoners across France and the Vichy. Yes, there was useful information about Resistance operations, the kind of intel that, typically, he would act on right away. But there was precious little about her.

_Her._

At least now he knew her real name.

"Sylvia," he said out loud in his plush office, enjoying the delicate consonants on his tongue. "Syl-vi-a."

Born an hour west of Chicago, last known address some dingy little hole on the Lower East Side. He tried to imagine the wild-eyed, feral creature he'd wrestled into his car that night typing in some New York office block.

She was, in fact, Jewish. On her father's side, at least. Surnames didn't lie.

A week had now passed. He had made multiple excuses to visit the fifth floor prison wing just to stroll by her cell. She glared at him from the shadows like a caged animal.

He should not have broken her down that night, he now realized. It was so easy for him to crack people open that he sometimes did it carelessly. It would be hard work to gain her trust now. And he was running out of time. Although his authority was untouchable, the Gestapo upstairs were antsy to free up space for more prisoners. Hans knew if she were sent to Drancy or some other internment camp it would be impossible to find her again.

He needed insight. Exactly one of these reports offered a promising, and convenient, lead. And all he had to do was take a stroll down the avenue, to the cafeteria at Gestapo headquarters.

One skill had served Sylvia well all her life, and especially in her life as an agent: her ability to sleep anywhere. The exhaustion of the previous 24 hours knocked her out for most of the next day. Her cell was dank and cold, and the flimsy bunk would leave bruises on her hips by day 3, but she had been trained to expect much worse.

The guards didn't bother her much. She was given water and stale bread, but generally left alone. She could sometimes whisper at the bars with the neighboring cell for ten minutes before anyone came to yell at them.

No news from her unit. She assumed no news was good news.

She found if she stood on the little bunk, she could peek through the tiny window at the top of the wall and see across the courtyard to the interrogation room. Not well enough to recognize anyone, but it was something.

Prisoners before her had carved messages into the decaying plaster. One right above her bunk read: "JAMAIS PARLER"…"never talk." She stared at it for hours, and waited for the _real _interrogation.

Landa slurped the dregs of his coffee, and brought the little cup and saucer to the dishwashers' window at the back of the cafeteria.

"Pardon," he called in immaculate French. "May I speak with Alain Fournier, please?"

A tall young man in a grungy apron appeared at the window. He looked Landa up and down. "I am Alain."

"I don't mean to distract you from your duties, but I wondered if we might have a little chat?" Landa said pleasantly.

Alain opened the door to the kitchen, several feet away. "Right this way, Standartenführer."

He led the officer through the busy kitchen to the dishwashing station, where Landa flipped a bucket and sat before being asked. Alain perched on the edge of the basin, one leg swinging nonchalantly.

"What can I do for you, Oberst?" the young man ventured.

"Mr. Fournier, I'm afraid the purpose of my visit is…mmm. I am led to believe you know a woman named Sylvia Leventhal."

"Afraid you're mistaken, sir. I don't know a Sylvia."

Landa smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you know her better as Greta."

Alain's leg stopped swinging.

"No, sir, doesn't ring a bell."

Landa was not in the mood. "Young man, we arrested her last week. She has been in my custody since we found her, after the blast. She was trapped under a piece of the ceiling while the rest of you escaped. I see you were unharmed."

The young man blinked once, as he processed this new information.

"I'm not going to arrest you," Landa finally said. "That's not why I'm here. Please, what can you tell me about Sylvia?"

"First of all," Alain said with a slight quaver in his voice. "I didn't know her name was Sylvia. Second, if she's in your custody, you're the one I feel sorry for."

"She is a most unusual woman."

"Yes, she is."

A pause while another soldier dropped off dishes under the window. After they had left, Landa continued.

"I have no intentions of harming her, Mr. Fournier. Nothing you tell me will be used against her, or any of your operation. I merely find her…interesting."

Alain swallowed. "I'm glad to hear that. Sylvia is pretty interesting. But I don't think you're her type."

Alain stood, and began to untie the apron.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Well, Standartenführer," he chirped. "Seems that I don't work here anymore."

"Yes, Mr. Fournier, I don't believe you do." Landa stood. "But the SS could always use young men of your intelligence. We offer a competitive pay rate."

"That's very generous of you, Herr Landa, but my dance card is full."

He set the apron on the counter, then turned back to Landa. "You swear on your life you won't hurt her?"

Landa raised his hand solemnly. "I swear on my life and all I hold dear."

Alain nodded, and backed slowly away. Landa watched from the dishwashing window as a known enemy agent walked free.

_What was this girl doing to him?_

As he walked back to 84 Avenue Foch, a plan took shape in his mind, murky, but thrilling. Unorthodox, perhaps. And certainly stretching the rules if not outright breaking them. But she was a special case.

An interrogation of a different sort. Long-form. Teasing out her secrets. Gaining her trust, wearing her down with his charm. Hans had no shortage of that, as his long trail of conquests proved. No woman had ever resisted him for long. Even a fierce half-Jew from America would succumb. He smiled at the thought of the proud resistance fighter willingly coming to his bed. Whimpering his name. Wanting him. The same mouth that left toothmarks in the sleeve of his trench coat that night would beg him for permission to come. Mm. Exquisite.

The ghost of a thought flickered at the edge of this fantasy – what to do with her after? He pushed it away for later, and asked the elevator bellhop for the fifth floor.


	5. Off-Premises

It was unusual but not unheard of, officers taking women prisoners off premises for their own enjoyment. Most in the Party didn't stoop to befouling themselves with undesirable races, but of course, it happened. Especially with the blonder, prettier ones. Which Sylvia certainly was.

The desk officer shot him a knowing glance, but quickly complied with his superior's command, sending two guards to fetch the young woman. Whether he judged Landa or not was irrelevant; none would dare challenge a Standartenführer.

It took longer than expected to bring her back, and when the guards returned, dragging her between them, her hair was wild, and both guards sweaty and breathing heavily with the effort of fighting her. Hands cuffed and mouth gagged, her eyes were that of an animal ready to kill, but she was trembling with fear. He noticed she had lost a significant amount of weight, and dark circles had carved deep beneath her eyes.

An unfamiliar emotion swelled within him, warm and yearning; he observed this feeling with detached interest as the guards bundled her into his Mercedes.

Number one: open the door and roll out.

Number two: get the cuffs over her head and strangle Landa with them.

Number three: bite down on his jugular? Very hard?

Yeah, none of those options looked good. And the cuffs were not coming off.

Sylvia worked the gag down to her neck in minutes, she was no fool. But she kept her mouth shut and focused on memorizing the car's route as it wound steadily south through Paris. They clearly weren't going to any of the Gestapo or SS buildings on Avenue Foch, and her mental map was sketchy in this part of town. Her legs certainly still hurt from the blast, but they worked, and she figured she could walk at least a mile in her current condition.

To her horror, they seemed to heading out of Paris entirely.

She scanned the rapidly passing houses for identifiers…and clocked a few Nazi flags hung from the eaves. Right, she thought. You damn fool. Any one of these families could be sympathetic to the Germans. Even if she got out of the vehicle, approaching a strangers' house in cuffs and a prison gown would be a hell of a gamble.

Sylvia refused to dwell on the fact that she was most likely about to die. Very painfully, absolutely humiliated at the hands of one of the SS's cruelest officers. She would just have to escape. She would be goddamned if this smug creep had his way with her.

Suddenly, he spoke, and all her focus shifted to translation.

"Where am I taking you, soldier?"

"Rolf Becker," the younger man in the passenger seat replied breathlessly. "May I just say, what an honor it is to ride with you, Standartenführer—"

"How do you find the outskirts of Paris?" Landa diffused.

"My wife prefers the city but we are quite happy. The air is fresher here."

Indeed, houses had become fewer and farther between, and now expanses of fields rolled past. Sylvia realized it was probably too late to walk back to the city.

More small talk. The weather has been rather cold lately. Rolf has two daughters, and one just turned 6.

Rolf's eyes met hers in the rearview, and then for one horrific moment, both Nazis were observing her in the mirror.

"Transporting a prisoner, eh?" the younger officer whispered, but plenty loud enough for her to hear.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"You chose a pretty one," Rolf snickered.

A deadly silence.

"Forgive me, I wasn't questioning—"

"You had better not be, Hermann." The catch-all name for a man beneath you. Like a slap in the face.

Rolf didn't speak again for the rest of the drive.

Sylvia stared hard at the now open countryside, avoiding the rearview mirror. She felt Landa's eyes on her, burning.

Somehow, she couldn't imagine him taking a woman by force. She was well aware of his reputation as a seducer, but those rumors had never included assault.

What if I pretend to enjoy it, she thought. Then the tiniest, decaying echo in the dark said, _What if I actually do. _

She redirected this notion. Maybe this was her chance to prove herself to OSS, and move up in the ranks. Spending one-on-one time with a Standartenführer? She imagined their faces when she turned up at HQ with a stack of exclusive intel from a high-ranking officer's _HOUSE_. Information like that could turn the tide of the entire war. She could make history.

All she had to do was play the role of a Nazi's whore. Just for a little while.

She shuddered a little remembering his hands on her shoulders in the interrogation room. How gently he had dried her tears. Perhaps he would not be such a monster…to her.

Then the little car was slowing in front of a quaint cottage. Rolf exited, and saluted a little too enthusiastically. Then they pulled away, and she was completely alone with Hans Landa for the first time.

They approached a dense wood, driving deeper and deeper until the road became dirt and she had to grip the door to avoid bouncing off the seat.

They slowed to a stop. Her heart was vibrating. Run, she thought. If he uncuffs you, knock him over and RUN.

Landa got out of the car, circled around to the trunk, and took a heavy-looking cloth bag out of it. Gripped by bone-deep animal fear, she began to futz pathetically with the cuffs again. Nope.

Then – the door opened and Landa slid into the backseat. She shrank against the door.

He smiled warmly. "So pleased to see you again, Sylvia Leventhal."

She felt every ounce of color drain from her face. So he knew.

"We need to get away from the road, anyone could see us here." He beckoned her out of the vehicle and she had no choice but to obey.

With one hand at her back, Landa guided her deeper into the birch wood. Sunlight occasionally poked through the dense canopy, and the cold March wind cut right through her threadbare prison gown. She tried to orient herself by the angle of the sun but found it impossible to determine.

So this was what was happening. A quick, ugly screw in the woods. Not even the dignity of a bed.

When they came upon a clearing, Landa left her side and spread a large grey blanket on the ground. Great, she thought. Facedown in damp wool. At least the sun shone through here, and wildflowers ringed the grass. It was absurdly beautiful. Not the worst place to die.

He approached her with his keys. "Would you like to be uncuffed, Sylvia?"

She nodded.

He stood very, very close to her, and with a hand at her chin, tipped her face up to his. She could feel his breath on her skin. "You must understand one thing, and I cannot uncuff you until you do." He smelled of aftershave, tobacco. "You _must not run_. You are a prisoner of the state. You are only safe in my custody. Should you attempt to escape, any one of these neighboring landowners would happily turn you in for a cash reward. I may not be able to rescue you a second time." He leaned down even closer. "That is, if you they don't shoot you on sight. If you wish to live, you must remain at my side, under my protection. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she lied.

Hans maintained eye contact a moment longer, as if searching for something. Satisfied, he let her head drop, and removed the cuffs. Sylvia slowly sank to the blanket as blood rushed back into her arms.

"Do you know what 'SS' stands for, Fraulein?" Hans said as he busied himself with the bag.

"Schutzstaffel," she replied, massaging the feeling back into her arms.

He clucked in surprise. "Very good! And the meaning?"

"Protection…squadron?"

"Precisely."

Yeah, but the point is to protect the German people FROM me, not the other way – and she lost this trail of thought entirely as she looked up and beheld the full spread, complete with bread, a generous wedge of brie, jam, butter, plates and knives, and even a bottle of what appeared to be sherry.

Well, goddamn. He packed a picnic.

Landa giggled as he cut a thick slice of baguette. "My dear girl, you must be starving."

"Not your girl," she muttered but then he handed her the bread with a fat smear of brie, and wow, was she hungry. But she wasn't stupid.

"You try it first."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "Are you aware of what I've just done for you? I saved your life."

Sylvia stared.

"You were to be sent to Drancy tonight. Or were you not told?"

She shook her head.

He began to prepare a slice for himself. "I was told this morning that you were to be sent to Drancy internment camp, and from there to a labor camp. But I decided to step in, and divert the course of fate. Honestly, I'm not sure why. A little whim of mine. Perhaps I'm sentimental when it comes to lovely young women." He took a big bite, and chewed with relish.

"I don't understand what the hell is going on," she replied, still clutching the uneaten bread.

"Stay with me, and you will survive the war," Landa said through a mouthful of baguette. "But please, eat."

Once she took a bite she found she couldn't stop. After the brie, she had another slice with currant jam, which she polished off in seconds, chewing in that frantic rhythm of a creature unsure if they would eat again. Landa wordlessly handed her another slice.

After number three, she began to feel terribly sleepy. So much bread was overwhelming after two weeks on stale crusts. She slumped against one arm in an attempt to stay upright.

Landa saw she was fading, packed up, and with the blanket tossed over one arm, led her back to the car.

The house seemed, from the outside at least, too modest for a man of Landa's rank. But from the inside, it was downright cozy.

Sylvia stood awkwardly while Landa removed his trench, and hung his cap – with that hideous death's head insignia – on a peg in the vestibule. She noticed he did not remove his dagger or pistol. Fair enough.

From the living room, she could see the small dining room, a doorway to the kitchen, and wooden stairs. There couldn't be more than two bedrooms up there, and they were right next to each other.

_She wouldn't be able to hide from him. _

"Make yourself at home," Landa said brightly, and went upstairs.

Alright then, she thought. There are two doors, front and back, both with deadbolts, back also has a latch. Landa's keys are in his uniform pocket. There's a massive butcher block full of knives on the counter. That sculpted bust of…whoever could easily knock a man out. From the sound of Landa's voice drifting down the stairwell, he has a telephone in his room. Eventually, he'll have to take that pistol off. And the nearest neighbors are well out of earshot.

Yes, a nice, relaxing weekend in the country would do nicely.


	6. A Weekend in the Country

Soaking in the clawfoot tub of Landa's country house, up to her ears in steamy water, Sylvia felt rejuvenated, glamorous, a little sexy, and extremely guilty.

Who was she to enjoy bath salts when her people suffered all across Europe? When the rest of France made do on starvation rations? When her fellow operatives, who had been through so much already, must be so worried about her?

Sylvia and Alain were as close to "best friends" as you could be without knowing each other's birth names. They had trained together in London, completed their first low-level reconnaissance mission together, and had a system for keeping in touch when meeting in person was too risky: there was a dead drop in a brick wall near both of their cover workplaces. Sylvia would leave a toffee wrapper, and Alain a gum wrapper, to say, "I'm alive, I'm still in Paris, and I'm okay enough to buy (or steal) sweets." For the first time since entering the field, she had no means to drop a wrapper.

But then again….if she could leave a wrapper right now, would it be a lie?

The strains of German polka floated up through the floorboards, from Landa's living room radio. Her training had prepared her for many things, but somehow she missed the part about intimate dinners with the SS officer tasked with wiping your own people from the map.

After several deep breaths, Sylvia pulled the plug.

She kept him waiting for nearly 15 minutes. She heard his fingers drumming impatiently as she finally descended the stairs.

The drumming stopped at once. She had found a simple blue housedress in her room closet, much too small for her and unbuttoned quite a ways down to accommodate her bust. She had to hike the skirt to comfortably sit down.

Hans stared at her for several minutes, then broke the silence. "I see you've been exploring."

"I'm not putting that prison gown back on."

"Understandable. Give me your measurements, and I'll have some new things made for you."

Marta, Landa's cook and housekeeper, burst in at that moment with the first course, a green salad. She avoided Sylvia's eyes entirely and swished back out as quickly as she came. Sylvia suddenly grasped how many former conquests must've sat in that chair before her.

Her stomach roiling, she stabbed at the salad.

"Is your room to your satisfaction?" Hans ventured.

She stared resolutely downward. "Yes."

Truth was, out of uniform, she suddenly understood. She had always figured the rumors were exaggerations. How could one middle-aged (albeit rather powerful) officer have bedded half the stars of German cinema, multiple princesses, heiresses, and radio stars? But with the Nazi insignia stripped away, he was devilishly handsome, and damn, did he know it.

"I'm told that bed is quite comfortable. Never slept in it myself. I took the room with a study, you see, I have so much paperwork to keep up with, I must bring it home sometimes," he chuckled.

Sylvia did not.

Marta swept through once again, replacing the first course with the main, wienerschnitzel with potatoes.

When Marta had left again, he leaned over the table conspiratorially. "It's veal, not pork."

Sylvia finally flicked her eyes upward. "How thoughtful of you."

And stabbed the meat so hard Landa jumped.

She devoured the schnitzel. It was her first truly filling hot meal in weeks and any guilt could wait. Landa watched her with appreciation.

"I have always liked a woman with an appetite."

"Your men starved me," she spat between bites.

"My men? No," he countered, elegantly carving another bite from his schnitzel. "My men are all Sicherheitstdienst, SD. Intelligence, et cetera. Not directly involved with the prison. But I am sorry they didn't feed you well."

She had nothing to say to that. Sorry? Like hell.

A few minutes passed, with the clinking of silverware on china.

"Sylvia," Hans finally said. "I would be a fool to ask for your trust. However, seeing as we may be together for some time, I"—

"Yes, how long will we be 'together'?" she demanded.

"That depends on many factors. Weeks, months, perhaps years. Until the Reich falls, the Führer changes his mind, the French drive us out, or it's otherwise safe to turn a Jewish-American conspirator loose in the streets."

She squinted. "Safe for whom?"

"You, of course." Hans chewed his last bite of schnitzel and laid down his silverware.

Sylvia's head was beginning to hurt.

"Ooh, wait until you see what Marta made for dessert!" Hans diverted. Almost on cue, Marta cleared their dishes, and returned with two thick slices of dense chocolate cake.

"Sachertorte!" He went for it with gusto.

She picked at her slice. It was pretty damn good, but her tolerance for rich desserts had suffered in wartime.

Returning his napkin to the table, Landa stood. His charisma was so powerful, one really couldn't help but look at him. "Join me on the porch momentarily." He flashed her one of his wry smiles, and left the table.

Sylvia found sitting alone with her conflicting emotions wasn't much better than sitting with Landa. She followed him outside to the back porch.

The view was astonishing. The sun had just set, and lights were beginning to twinkle in the valley below. The lowing of cattle drifted up on the breeze, and a few stars were already visible. Sylvia gasped involuntarily.

"Not a bad place to 'get away from it all', as you Americans say, eh?" Hans smiled and offered her a cigarette. Why not, she figured, accepting.

They smoked in reverent silence as the earth rolled away from the sun.

"Is it all farmers down there?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Some farmers, a lot of German soldiers. You see, I was not the first to come here looking for a country house. Paris is lovely, but Germans are the sort who crave open air." He gestured to a point of light not far away. "Goebbels bought that one to the left. Over there, von Arent. Viktor Lutze bought that one but he rarely uses it, pity. Himmler's niece and her husband just moved into that one just there, it used to be a dairy farm. Hard to imagine Elsa Himmler on a wooden stool milking a cow!" he guffawed.

She mustered a chuckle, but she got the message loud and clear.

Still, if he was feeling chatty, maybe she could squeeze more info out of him.

"This is pretty high up. Did you take this house because you miss the Alps?"

"There is nowhere like the Alps," he said, stubbing out his cigarette. "But yes, here I have the illusion of height."

"I've never been."

"Well, then, we must go someday, Fraulein."

His tone unsettled her. She excused herself back into the house, and paused in the kitchen.

The knives.

A glance back towards the porch. Hans had fully reclined in the chair, one foot propped on his knee.

She had a little training with knives. Not much. She knew you had to be very close to someone to successfully stab them. She also knew if that person were more experienced than you, they could take your knife and kill YOU first.

She slowly pulled a butcher knife from the wooden block, tested the sharpness of the blade. Eventually Landa would fall asleep. Could she kill him? Did she have what it took to kill a man? How many lives would be saved if she did?

Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly slot the knife back into place. She braced herself against the counter.

"Sylvia."

She jumped a little but covered it. "I'm feeling dizzy, Herr Landa. I think I should go to bed early."

"Yes, you need to sleep and regain your strength." His hand settled on her shoulder, and squeezed. "I hope you will be very content here, Fraulein." Then he turned and headed up the stairs.

She pushed most of the little bedroom's furniture against her door that night. Just in case Hans had any ideas. But apparently, he didn't.

To Sylvia's relief, he was mostly absorbed in the newspaper at breakfast, asking only the cursory, "How did you sleep?" and commenting on the strength of Marta's coffee.

Yes! Real coffee! Sylvia had taken it for granted while she worked at the Soldatenkaffee on Avenue Foch, but the vast majority of Parisians had done without for years.

She realized with a start that she would never work at the Soldatenkaffee again.

After breakfast, Hans took the newspaper to the living room, where warm sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows. Sylvia read each section as Hans finished it. It was a German paper, and every headline and picture turned her stomach. But it was something.

She scanned for any news of raids or arrests, and found nothing concerning her unit.

By lunchtime, she was getting antsy.

After lunch, Hans went upstairs to his study to get work done. Sylvia opened every book on the shelf and tested each floorboard, to no avail.

By dinner, she was so stir-crazy she was ready to scream.

"So when do I find out what you're planning to do to me?" she fired across that night's main dish of boiled veal.

"Must I plan something to do with you?" he teased, with that obscene smirk.

"I'm a prisoner in your house!"

"And the state had already taken you prisoner in a prison, which would you prefer?"

"I just," she stammered, all the frustration threatening to surface. "I need to know…what will happen to me. Just tell me."

Hans shrugged. "My dear girl, there is nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

He wasn't so fond of her dirty mouth. "Fraulein, not everyone is a spy on a secret mission. Every now and then, someone may tell you the truth."

"It doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense. I'm vermin to you! You want me dead!"

Hans paused for a moment before proceeding. "You are a special case, Fraulein."

"I'm not special," she retorted. "I'm Jewish. You're a Nazi. There's nothing to negotiate here."

He avoided her eyes.

"Am I to be your whore then? Some kind of sick house pet? Or will you just shoot me when you get whatever intel you want?"

"Sylvia," he warned. "I've taken you in at great risk to myself. Don't forget that."

She stood. "And your job is taking the lives of my people. I won't forget that, either."

With Hans' eyes burning at her back, Sylvia ascended the stairs and shut her door.

After the scene she had made, Sylvia wasn't about to leave her room until she was sure Hans was asleep. After his door had been closed for an hour, she figured the coast was clear to get ready for bed.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth, combed out her dark blonde hair, and wondered who that tired old hag in the mirror could be. With an audible sigh, she turned out the light and opened the bathroom door –

\- to find Hans waiting on the landing.

She tried to slip past him but his outstretched arm stopped her in her tracks.

"Sylvia…please. Look at me."

Something in his voice compelled her to obey.

Two bodies in the dark, breathing too fast, standing too close. She could feel the heat from his nearness. His hands gripped her shoulders, traveled the length of her arms, finding and grasping her own trembling hands. They were strong. And impossibly gentle. Like no man she had ever known.

"Must you be so afraid of me?" he whispered, his eyes yearning.

Overwhelmed, she pulled away.

A loaded silence. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding.

"Gute nacht, Sylvia."

Then, he returned to his room….leaving the door slightly open.

In a flash, her body awakened to possibility. There was nothing to stop her going to his bed. She could cross the landing, open his door, and let him undo her. In the dark country house, away from Paris and far from the war, no one would know. She could submit to this charming, terrible, gorgeous, impossible man, with no consequences.

Needs she had long ignored were stirring inside her. It had been…oh god, how long had it been? Wasn't she allowed to feel good, to be wanted? The universe had offered her pleasure in the midst of so much suffering, would it be so wrong to take it?

Sylvia steadied herself in the doorway of her assigned bedroom, taking deep breaths. She was a spy. She was a resistance fighter. She despised the Nazis and everything they stood for. And she was a Jew…everything Landa and men like him sought to exterminate. There could be no love between them. She thought of her own people, marched to their deaths, slaughtered by the thousands. No matter what he said or did, he was an evil man.

She remembered the contempt in Anne-Marie's voice as she spat out of the words, "_collaboration horizontale." _How the French resistance described women who slept with the enemy.

Sylvia was nearly sick from what she had almost done.

She fumbled in the dark for her canvas prison shoes and put them on. She had to get the hell out of there.

On the landing, she looked once again at the open door to Landa's study, and caught the low buzz of snoring. He was fast asleep.

Sylvia gently pushed the door open a few inches and saw that his study was a separate room from where he slept. The door to his bedroom was ajar but only just. And there were stacks of files on his desk.

The folder on top was stuffed to bursting with papers. As lightly as she could, she tiptoed over to the desk, snatched the folder, and snuck right back out, stuffing it under the dress and into the band of her underwear on the landing. The SS's finest detective slept through the whole thing.

Suddenly giddy, she crept down the wood stairs to the still darkened kitchen. She swiped an apple and a small loaf from the pantry. There was a long black overcoat in the hall closet. _Sorry, Marta, _she mentally whispered and buttoned it up to the neck.

The door was, of course, still padlocked. But the big kitchen window gave way with only a squeak. Sylvia used a chair to climb onto the sink, then carefully out the window, dropping to the ground with her precious cargo, the folder, only slightly dampened with sweat.

She walked as briskly as she could down the hill and onto the main road, in the direction of Paris. Freedom! Her exhaustion became delirious joy at the motion of her own legs, the fresh night air, the stars glittering above. Out here, you could certainly forget there was a war on.

She must've walked for some time because she suddenly realized she could see her surroundings. Larks began singing in the fields, and the sky took on a rosy tinge.

Finally, the first vehicle came along, a farm truck pulling a trailer full of livestock. Sylvia flagged it down and to her amazement, it actually stopped.

"Please, monsieur," she cried in her most waifish voice. "I overslept and my brothers left for market without me. Mama will be so furious."

The driver, a gruff middle aged man, leaned out of the truck window and assessed the bedraggled woman. Finally, he hooked his thumb towards the back. "No room up here, but you can ride in the trailer."

"Thank you, sir!" she squealed.

She clambered up into the trailer, swinging one leg at a time over the gate, and found herself face to face with about 20 fattened sheep. As the truck lurched forward again, Sylvia gripped the side to stay upright, and one of the passengers let out a mournful bleat.

"You and me both, pal."


	7. Safe House

"What the hell is this?" Edward scoffed.

Plenty had happened over the weekend, as it turned out. After the Etoile blast, Sylvia's commanding officer had been shipped back to England, for undisclosed reasons, and Edward had been promoted in a hurry. Considering how well he knew the territory, you couldn't deny he was the best possible replacement. And he was the best radio man in Paris by a long shot. But boy, could he be a prick.

"It's all blank. There's nothing in this." He began tossing sheets on the floor.

"Keep looking," Sylvia began to sweat. "He left it on top, it has to be valuable."

Edward discovered the overstuffed pocket in the back of the folder, and dumped it out onto his lap.

Newspaper clippings. Lots and lots of newspaper clippings. About Landa. Photo ops of Landa with Hitler Youth. Landa in German tabloids with various film and cabaret stars.

"Agent, are you telling me you blew off a valuable source to bring me blank paper and that egomaniac's scrapbook?"

"What was I supposed to do, stay there? In his house? Where anything could happen?"

Edward dropped his volume condescendingly. "Yes, agent. Where anything could happen, up to and including getting real intel!"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "I was in danger! He's obsessed with me!"

"Well, that would explain who threw the grenade, now, wouldn't it? If it meant he got to 'rescue' you."

Sylvia sat back in her chair and digested this. Holy shit. Could he….would Hans have done that?

"Should I go back to his house then? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"No," Edward commanded. "You're cover's fully blown and the Germans have your photo. You've gotta lay low, real low. We'll put you in a safe house for a few months. Congratulations, agent, you've made yourself a real powerful enemy."

She blanched. "A few months?!"

Edward began to pick up the papers and slap them back into the folder. "You know why they call him the Jew Hunter, right? Because he's real good at finding 'em. And if he's 'obsessed' with you, we can't put our other operatives at risk." He handed her the folder, clumsily stuffed. "Three months. Catch up on your reading, wash your hair, stare at the walls and be glad you're not in a camp."

She took the folder mechanically, and not trusting herself to be polite, left without another word.

The first two weeks were a long smear of boredom and anxiety.

The safe house was a small, narrow building near the north bank of the Seine, and walking distance from plenty of tourist attractions…which would be great, if she were allowed to leave.

She had groceries delivered, cooked simple meals on her two burner stove, and smoked what passed for cigarettes these days out of her single window. She read fashion magazines, movie magazines, National Geographic, even German propaganda. She sometimes jogged in circles around the room, until the downstairs neighbor banged on the underside of her floor. Edward had created a new cover for her, "Thérèse," and had her hair dyed and cut. It was the wrong shade of brown for her coloring but that hardly mattered now.

Alain dropped off a packet of toffees in the lobby. But the agents were forbidden to go up and visit her.

It was gonna be a long three months.

Parisians were expected to turn their lights out and keep their blinds shut after dark, in case of air raids. But some nights, after the city fell into that uncanny, Occupation quiet, Sylvia opened her window and leaned out. Just to take in the air, blow smoke, and look at something other than the wall.

What would have happened if she had made a different choice that night, on the landing? It was too late now. And, knowing Landa, he would certainly find her again.

_I almost wish he would, _she thought, in her most secret of hearts. At least, in Landa's custody, she had someone to talk to.

Hans Landa had always believed in the importance of thorough paperwork. No matter what you accomplished, it was worthless without proper documentation. He found it immensely satisfying to fill blanks, cross off lists, and organize information.

But that afternoon, at his massive desk on the third floor at 84 Avenue Foch, he found himself reluctant to touch pen to paper.

It was Sylvia's file before him. Or "Greta's," rather.

He could update it with her real name. He could denote her as "at large."

Hans' ego smarted from the rejection. He was accustomed to having any woman he wanted, without much effort. Not only did she push him away, but ran from him in the night (and stolen the dummy file he always left on top of his actual paperwork.) But there had never been a woman like Sylvia.

He tapped his fountain pen against the polished wood. If his superiors learned she had escaped, he'd look like a fool…and the Gestapo would circulate posters with her photo, putting her in grave danger. But if they discovered she had died in his custody, well…._these things do happen, _after all.

He thought of the wild, foul-mouthed harpy he caught testing the kitchen knives. He also thought of the trembling creature on the landing, frightened by his touch.

Next to BIRTH NAME, he wrote "Unknown."

Next to STATUS, he wrote "Deceased."

And Greta Van Horn was no more.

About two weeks into Sylvia's stay at the safe house, something interrupted her endless reading: pounding on the front door.

She sat up in an instant, blood rushing in her ears. What were they shouting? "Absuchen." Search. Good enough for her.

In seconds she was in shoes and a coat, and slipped out of her room into the hallway. One furtive peek over the railing got her a glimpse of green uniforms. Gestapo.

_This was supposed to be a safe house! _How the hell?

She rushed to the window at the end of the hall, swung a leg over, thought of what a rare treat it would be to leave a building out the door, for once, and reached for the ladder – that wasn't there.

She stared dumbly at the bare brick wall where she clearly remembered a ladder installed for just this purpose. What was happening? No time to think. She grabbed the top of the window frame and pulled herself up to full height. From there, she felt the wall for a brick she could grab, then another, and very carefully eased herself up to the edge of the roof. Thank god they had put her on the top floor.

She hoisted herself over the ledge, dropped onto the roof and sank low, out of sight. And breathed.

The truth was, nothing was ever really "need to know." People talked, to their lovers, their close friends. Loose lips and all that. But most of her fellow agents didn't even know this address. Had someone sold her out to the Nazis? Who would do such a thing? How else could they have found her?

_Oh._

"You've made a very powerful enemy," Edward's voice reverberated.

Sylvia's head fell back against the roof wall with a _thunk._ She had spurned the Jew Hunter himself, and now the chickens were coming home to roost.

What's more…she had left her new papers behind. Son. Of. A. Bitch. So much for "Thérèse."

She had to keep moving. Luckily, the rooftops on this block were flat and easily traversed. She picked her away across to the other avenue, clearing each ledge, constantly checking over her shoulder.

After a tense hour of so shivering in the wind, she determined the coast was as clear as it was gonna get. To her immense relief, the door to the stairwell was loosely latched, and within minutes she was down the stairs and out in the streets of Paris, with no papers or identification whatsoever.

First stop: a telephone booth. She made a call, spoke one phrase into the receiver – "I've had two years to grow claws, mother! Jungle red!" – and hung up. This was her distress code. There would be a message for her to pick up later. Now she had to kill time.

The mist turned to rain, and walking became miserable. Sylvia slipped into a cinema, where some goofy monster movie was playing. Aside from some scattered singles and a German soldier and his girlfriend necking in the back row, it was empty. Still, she felt paranoid. The badly made-up actor roared, the pretty blonde screamed and screamed, and Sylvia waited.

Hans swirled his wine glass distractedly and scanned the room for anyone he absolutely had to speak to tonight. It was some Waffen general's birthday, or anniversary, or they just felt like being honored with a lavish party. He found these functions, and most of the attendees, absolutely unbearable. But his presence was expected, and he had to keep up appearances.

"Why, Colonel Landa! Am I glad to see you at this stuffed-shirt parade," a silvery voice purred. It belonged to a petite woman in a bias-cut gown. She put out her hand expectantly.

"Mitzi Schubert!" He bent to kiss her hand. "What a pleasant surprise." An old fling. Well, a one-night stand. Okay, more like ten or twenty night stands. She was a cabaret dancer who flitted around high-ranking Party members like a moth to a flame.

"What's the matter, baby boy? Not in a party mood?"

His mind was on Sylvia. He couldn't escape her. Nor could he find her. The trail went cold at that open kitchen window of the country house.

"You could say that."

One of Mitzi's delicate hands came to rest on his arm. "Let's get out of here, Hans. We can have our own little party at my place. What do ya say?"

He'd had little interest in skirt-chasing lately. But a night with Mitzi was a guaranteed good time, and perhaps the distraction he needed.

Hans put his arm around her waist. "Lead the way."

The bookstore was closed.

Sylvia was absolutely stunned. It was a Resistance front, its entire purpose was cover for agent communication. How could it be closed?

Something was very wrong. Someone had been compromised, and Sylvia wasn't going to be next.

She continued walking, now completely at sea. No word from her commander, nowhere to sleep tonight, no cover, no papers. She was a sitting duck. And it was approaching curfew.

Dipping into an alley, she found an apple crate, half rotten from the rain but still strong enough to support her weight. Maybe she could just sit down and figure it all out. Maybe snooze for just a little bit. Her chin dropped to her chest. She was awfully tired.

_The sensation of freefall._

Then a start as a blinding light shook her out of sleep. Headlights. She shielded her eyes to assess the figure stepping out of the car, and nearly laughed out loud. Of course.

_Congratulations_, _Standartenführer_, she thought as Landa crossed the headlight beams of his Mercedes towards her. _You_ _win_ _this_ _round_.


	8. Hypotheticals

Hans cut the engine, freezing the windshield wipers in mid arc. Raindrops quickly filled the glass, obscuring the two figures inside.

They sat in the dark like this for some time.

"Fraulein, may I pose a hypothetical?"

As if she had a choice. "Sure."

"Suppose…the Allies had a number of intelligence agents working in Occupied France. And suppose one of these agents is a lovely young Jewish woman, such as yourself."

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

"As a Jew," Hans continued, "she is in greater danger than her fellow agents. It would stand to reason that her command take additional measures to guarantee her safety, don't you agree? Perhaps, someone lobs a grenade into a meeting, and this agent is trapped under rubble. She will almost certainly be arrested if left behind. Shouldn't her rescue be her comrades' first priority?"

She simmered but kept her mouth shut.

"Now suppose she runs away, back to the city and surely, to the protection of her command, yet she ends up outside after curfew, cowering in a dark alley, soaking wet and hungry, am I correct?" She nodded, she was certainly hungry. "One assumes her command has once again abandoned her. Taking all of this into account, if the Allies cannot successfully keep _one _field agent safe, what does this say about their prospects of winning the war?"

"When you put it that way…" she muttered.

"Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight, Sylvia?"

She swallowed. "No, I don't."

Hans slapped the dashboard. "See how your command has failed you?"

"Look, I don't know what you want me to say here, but my unit are good people. They're my friends. They would never abandon me. If anything, command is compromised." She turned to Hans. "And your timing in all of this is pretty convenient. You sure you aren't the one lobbing grenades and sicc-ing Gestapo on me?"

He scoffed. "Grenades? Don't insult me. We're as baffled by that blast as I'm sure you are. And I've told you, Gestapo aren't my men."

"Well, you have a real uncanny sense of when to come rescue me."

"Sylvia," his voice turned softer. "What happened? Where are you supposed to be?"

"I don't spill that easy," she started, then cocked her head slightly. "You really didn't send that raid?"

"What raid?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

"The safe house was raided today…I had to climb onto the roof to escape. I haven't been able to get a hold of my command, I…I think something really bad has happened. I left my papers, too."

She trailed off. The rain intensified, filling the silence.

"Stay with me, Sylvia," Hans whispered. "Let me take care of you."

"I need to leave the country."

"You'll never get past the checkpoints."

He was right.

"We're enemies, Herr Landa. You keep forgetting that."

"I haven't forgotten for a second."

The rain was punishingly loud.

"No one has ever raided my property, Sylvia. In all of France, there is nowhere safer than with me."

"Because you're the one who orders the raids."

Hans looked resolutely forward, at nothing. "That's correct."

"Your job is to exterminate me. I'm a roach to you. A rat."

"I've made it abundantly clear that's not true."

"You're a Nazi!"

He tried to wave this away. "My loyalties are not so cut and dried."

She indicated the medals on his jacket. "Well, that's an awful lot of hardware for a casual Party member."

The rain began to let up. Sylvia could faintly make out Landa's hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Please," he finally continued. "Let me protect you."

"While you go out every day and murder my people?"

A long beat. Another vehicle swept by on the avenue but must not have seen them. The sound of tires on wet road faded, until it was only the rain again.

"Make your choice, Sylvia. I have no desire to leave you in danger. My home is open to you."

"Hans," she ventured carefully. "I'm an enemy of the state. If you shelter me, you're committing treason."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

A deep breath. "Are you willing to commit treason for me?"

"I already have."

She turned and found his face inscrutable in the dark. But something had unmistakably shifted. She knew he was telling the truth.

If Hans hadn't found her, another, less sympathetic officer would have. She truly had no choice. But she appreciated Hans pretending she did.

"I'll stay with you," she replied at last.

"And you won't run away this time?"

"No." Was it a lie? Time would tell.

"Smart girl," Hans said, and started the car. The sudden blast of headlights startled them both for a second. The wipers picked up their rhythm. And the car began to move.

As they rolled carefully along the cobblestone street, Sylvia watched the looming silhouettes of buildings pass. The Trocadero gardens, the Eiffel Tower, all made strange and forboding in occupation darkness.

She realized they were nearing Avenue Foch.

"Hans," she asked. "You don't happen to have any candy? Maybe a toffee?"


	9. Mixed Signals

In a plush Paris penthouse, Hans Landa pulled his finest dress uniform pants over his rapidly-fading erection.

"You'll catch your death of cold out there, Hans," Mitzi moaned from the bed, still naked.

He buttoned his shirt and cuffs. "You have worn me out body and soul, Mitzi, it's time I went home."

She pouted. "What if I want to go another round?"

"I'm hardly the only officer in your book, Fraulein." She wasn't usually this clingy. But to be fair, he wasn't usually this distracted in bed. Oh, sure, he'd given her a solid plowing, she'd moaned, and "Oh Hans," and climaxed. But she knew she hadn't had his full attention, and Mitzi was the kind of woman who took it personally.

"But I don't want some other officer." She sat up, the silk sheet falling away from her stunning breasts. Any other night, Hans would've leapt right back into bed for another romp. But something had changed, something he couldn't explain to her. Something he couldn't quite parse himself.

"Goodnight, Mitzi," he cooed, kissing her hand. Then he left her alone.

Hans arrived at his posh townhouse just before midnight. Upon opening the door, he nearly stepped on an envelope in the vestibule.

One glance at the handwriting and Hans sprinted back out to his car.

It was from the surveillance man he'd had posted across from the Resistance front bookstore. The bookstore had inexplicably closed early today, and Sylvia was spotted outside shortly after.

Visiting Mitzi had cost him hours. Damn it all!

Hans tore down the Boulevard Raspail towards the 14th arrondissement, as far as his spy had tracked her before she vanished in the shadows. It was not a short walk by any means, and well after curfew by that point. She was almost certainly still on the street.

He once prided himself on being able to think like a Jew, to flush them out wherever they may hide. Now he prayed he could find this one before his own forces did.

Slowing down, he began his methodical block-by-block hunt. And found her, drenched and shivering, within the hour.

"Thank you, Marta," Sylvia said cheerfully to the departing figure of Landa's housekeeper. "She does speak German, doesn't she?"

"She speaks everything but conversation," Hans sighed as he buttered his croissant. It was Sylvia's first morning in Landa's townhouse, and she sensed an even stronger animus from Marta than before.

"Hans, I think it's about the overcoat…the one I stole." She glanced in the direction of the kitchen. So her "Thérèse" makeover didn't even fool Landa's housekeeper. Thanks, Edward. Great job.

"She'll get another coat. Sylvia, tell me about what happened to your resistance unit."

She stiffened. "It's a little early for interrogation."

"You mentioned your command may be compromised, did you not?"

She stirred her coffee slowly. "I did. It doesn't concern you."

"Matters of your safety concern me. And if your command has been compromised by Germans, that could put us both in danger."

So there it was. Day one under Landa's protection, and the first impossible test of loyalties lay before them.

"Forgive me, Hans, but there are other lives at stake here than just yours and mine."

He chewed his croissant thoughtfully. "You don't trust me. I understand. You're a good agent."

"And you're a good SS officer, hence why I don't trust you."

"Well," he chuckled at the Jewish spy across his breakfast table. "I was."

Sylvia nearly spat her coffee. "Shit. I take it back. You're a rotten SS officer, maybe the worst."

"I wish you wouldn't use foul language," he gently scolded.

"There's plenty I wish you wouldn't do."

That old, uncomfortable silence. She took a long sip, savoring the thrill of making Landa squirm.

"While I'm gone today," he diverted. "Keep the lights off and stay away from windows. Don't answer the door or the telephone. You may play the radio but quietly. And keep the curtains closed downstairs."

Did he think she was a child? Of course she wouldn't open the door or answer the damn phone.

"Marta will leave at noon, and you may find lunch in the icebox." He deposited his napkin on the table and stood. "Whether you trust me or not, please enjoy the many comforts of my home while I am out earning them."

He started to walk past her. Her hazel eyes gazed up at him from beneath that new fringe.

He paused, touched his lips to the part in her hair with exquisite tenderness, then briskly continued upstairs.

Marta's face, watching through the cracked kitchen door, vanished as soon as Sylvia looked up.

On a sunny corner of the Boulevard Pereire, near the Metro entrance, sat a newsstand. Of course, "news" was a strong word these days. Pink-cheeked Aryan children beamed from the covers of Signal, a German propaganda magazine. There were many, many copies of Signal, and a few stacks of newspapers.

The young man behind the counter squinted. From the far edge of the plaza, an SS Standartenführer strode right towards him.

He dropped.

A moment later, Hans Landa approached the seemingly empty newsstand. "_Bonjour_?"

Silence.

"Monsieur Fournier, I know you're hiding from me. Stand up at once."

Alain slowly reappeared. "Please, Herr Landa, you blew my last cover and I really like this job."

"Your cover isn't blown," Landa hissed.

"Agree to disagree, sir. And it's 'Pierre' now….or was."

"Listen, Alain. I have matters of great importance to discuss with you."

A woman paused at the newsstand, glanced at the Aryan childen, and went on her way.

Landa leaned in closer. "It's about Sylvia."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. Completely safe. But I need your help with that."

"I'm listening."

Another pause while Landa casually checked the periphery. "It has come to my attention that your unit may be compromised."

Alain stood up. "Sorry, sir, we don't carry Filmwelt here," he replied too loudly.

"Hush! I believe they may be targeting Sylvia. Her safe house was raided. I found her on the street after curfew. What kind of operation leaves an agent stranded? It's disgraceful."

The young man appraised Landa coolly for a moment. "It is."

"Ah, so we are on the same page."

"Sir, you may be on a page, but I'm still stuck on the cover."

Landa cocked his head slightly. "A smart boy like you ought to know better than to judge books by their covers."

"Sometimes, a cover tells you all you need to know," Alain replied, thumping the nearest stack of Signal.

A young SS soldier stepped up. "Three copies of Signal, please."

Alain made change as the soldier unctuously saluted Landa. "An honor, Standartenführer!"

Landa nodded. Both men waited until the soldier had crossed the boulevard.

"Alain, I want to propose a deal."

"Go on."

"I'm going to give you information that would lead to my immediate arrest, humiliation, and likely execution, were you to use it. In return, you give me the information I need to investigate the mole in your operation. Are you interested in such an arrangement?"

The young man seemed to be rifling through many possible scenarios in his mind. "Yes, I am."

Landa motioned him to lean in, and behind a cupped hand, whispered, "_I'm sheltering Sylvia in my home."_

Alain leaped back, goggle-eyed. "You're what? But that's…"

"Treason."

The young man struggled to close his jaw.

"So you understand the delicacy of this arrangement."

"I do, Herr Landa. And thank you, truly, thank you. But…"

The question hung in the air.

"But what?"

Alain shook his head. "I think I know the answer to that one."

Landa's mouth creased into a semi-smile. "My mission has been compromised as well."

As if on cue, a fresh crop of commuters poured out of the Metro, and Landa had to step aside while they purchased their papers.

When the last had departed, Landa asked, "Perhaps you'd like to visit her?"

The young man brightened. "Can I come tonight?"

"Privileges must be earned, young man." Landa slapped the counter. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Every weekday," Alain replied. "Before you go, can you—"

Landa waited while he fished in his pocket for a moment, producing a gum wrapper.

The record player hissed and scraped as the song ended once again. Hans replaced the arm, and the clarinet strains of 'Zauberland' began once again.

"I don't know why, I just love it," Sylvia sighed as the Valtonen sisters' close harmonies soared from the Victrola console.

"Shh, you don't have to explain." Hans took her in his arms once again as their bodies picked up the rhythm. This had become a ritual now, a little dancing at the end of the day. He had mentioned teaching her to waltz, but tonight, she only wanted Zauberland. Slowly, gently, they swayed along beneath the unlit chandelier.

His hands, strong, steady. The smell of him, his tobacco, his warm breath in her hair.

How long could she put off the inevitable? How much longer could she swallow her own lies?

She pressed her other cheek to Hans' chest….and looked directly at his medals. Swords. Swastikas. SS.

_Zauber _(magic) was make believe.

"I'd like to go to bed…to sleep," she stammered, pulling out of his embrace. "Goodnight."

She didn't know exactly what the medals meant. But she knew what they stood for.

** Sylvia and Hans dance to the radio, she acknowledges she's developing feelings

** Mitzi breaks in and steals a pair of Sylvia's underwear – neither Sylvia nor the reader know that she's a spy yet


	10. Alignment

"I have something for you," Hans dangled over the breakfast table.

Sylvia laid down her fork. You could never be too suspicious of Hans' surprises.

"Put out your hand," he commanded.

She obeyed.

With exaggerated smoothness, he reached over the breakfast dishes and dropped a wadded gum wrapper in Sylvia's hand, then sat back for the explosion.

"WHAT? You…but he…HOW?! Hans, you SAW HIM?"

"You think I could investigate the L'Etoile blast without interviewing every witness?" He feigned insult.

Sylvia tucked the wrapper into her skirt pocket. "Hans, so help me god…if I find out you…"

"My dear girl, have I ever harmed one single hair on your pretty head?" She felt the charm knob turning up. She glanced away.

"Those are my comrades, Hans. They're your enemies, but if you…please don't hurt them. For me. That's all."

"On my honor," Hans replied.

What an interesting choice to swear on.

"So you spoke to Alain, then."

"I did. He's well. He misses you."

A sudden pang struck her, as she realized the enormous loss of her former life, vocation, friends, and freedom. A knot in her throat.

Hans' voice became low, conspiratorial. "Would you like to see him?"

"See him? How? It's too dangerous."

"Let him come here."

Sylvia shook her head vigorously. "I'm not putting him in danger."

"Supposed he just happens to come by one day, on business. Who would question it?"

She stood and pushed in her chair. "Why are you so adamant that he come here?"

"Because I already gave him the address."

Sylvia's jaw set in a way he had learned to watch out for.

"Don't be petulant. I'm above suspicion, Fraulein. Another comfort of my home you're welcome to enjoy."

Sure enough, later that afternoon while Sylvia was alone, the doorbell chimed.

Creeping down the stairs, she peeked through the sitting room window at the figure on the stoop. Then ran to open the door.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle, would you like to renew your subscription to Signal?" Alain chirped.

She pulled him inside and locked the door before spinning him across the living room in a hug.

"My love!" He held her face in his hands. "That ghastly old kraut wasn't lying after all!"

She cringed at "ghastly old kraut" but recovered quickly. "And what have you been up to?"

"Oh, they've got me slinging newspapers, pure propaganda." He paused. "Oh, god, love, what have they done to you?"

"Alain, I don't know where to start, everything's gone wrong, the safe house, the bookstore, and—"

"I know all that, I meant" – he let a lock of her not-quite-brown hair fall from his fingers.

She slugged his arm. "Sit. We have to debrief."

Alain looked around warily. He wiped the sofa with his hand before perching on the edge. "Is it catching?" Mouthing the word, "NAZISM?"

"I know, I know," she breathed, her eyes coming to rest on the copy of Signal Alain had set down. The Aryan children's eyes glowed with Nationalist fervor. "It's all….so weird. I don't know how to explain. I think he's in love with me?"

He cocked an eyebrow.

"I know! It's impossible, it's…" she waved around at the general situation. "All of this is impossible! How the hell are we here right now? In a Standartenführer's house?"

"And yet here we are." Alain touched her wrist. "Are you sure you don't need me to rescue you?"

"No, no, I'll be fine…he won't hurt me."

"Do you trust him?"

"Well." She let out a dry laugh. "You know what they call him. What do you think he's out doing every day?"

Alain wiped his glasses on his sweater. "He's investigating our unit, actually. He seems to think there's a mole."

She processed this for a moment.

"Is that really what he's up to? How much have you told him?"

"The bare-titted minimum, I'm no fool. But he's not wrong. We're compromised. We have been for some time, I think."

Hearing it from a trusted friend's mouth made it terrifyingly real. "Who? We know everyone."

"Do we?"

Okay, fair point. Running missions, handing off intel, the odd meeting and occasional drink didn't add up to more than acquaintanceship. They didn't even know each other's birth names.

"Alain…they're targeting me, aren't they? Someone wants me dead."

"It certainly seems that way."

She fell back against the sofa, tears of frustration beginning to well. "What have I done? I was an eavesdropping waitress, why bother?!"

"Well, it's obvious why, love." Alain crossed his ankle over his leg. "You're compromising Landa. And without Landa, their hold on Paris is in the proverbial shitter. He's an important man."

Sylvia had never considered herself to have this much power over the Nazi occupation of France. "So…you're saying one of us is a German plant?"

"Or taking German money. Same difference."

"What are they so afraid of?"

"That you'll turn him to the other side, naturally," Alain replied with a chuckle. "Look what he's already done for you."

"There _is _the treason…"

"Oh, _would _that a man would commit treason for _me,_" he whined dramatically.

"Hush, you have Philippe."

Alain's eyes seemed very tired all of a sudden. "Afraid we're not doing so well. He's always out late, disappears for days at a time. We quarrel when he comes home. The strain is getting to him… I don't think he has the fortitude for this life. I think he's seeing some nice civilian boy on the side. Pity, isn't it?"

"Oh, Alain. Have you tried talking to him about it?"

He sighed heavily. "Some things can't be talked through. I don't want to cut him loose under these circumstances, but…."

Sylvia knew all about "but…."

"So," Alain eagerly changed the subject. "Tell me all about your Nazi benefactor."

"Well…" She picked at the upholstery. "He saved me from the rubble at L'Etoile…"

"Oh god, you have to believe me, I was so worried about you, we all were, but Edward kept shouting at us to run…he seemed to think we should sacrifice one agent for the greater good. We wanted to go back."

"That's official protocol, Alain. The good of the unit." It made her sick to know they had intentionally left her behind, protocol or no.

"Still," he remarked slyly. "I'd say you've made out okay. What's he like, your old Colonel?"

"He's not THAT old. He's…obnoxious? Arrogant? But I don't know, Alain. He came looking for me, every time. He might actually care for me."

She didn't mention how delicately he held her as they swayed to the phonograph, mere feet from where she sat now, the way his hands just grazed her skin as though she would shatter at his touch, the nightly battle with her desires that she knew, eventually, she'd lose.

"How touching. But I'm sure you'll squeeze great intel out of him."

She shifted awkwardly. "Sounds like he tells you more than he tells me."

"He did tell me your birth name, _Sylvia_." Alain smiled. "It suits you."

Strange, but soothing, to hear her name from someone other than Hans. "Thanks."

"And because it's only fair…." He put out a hand. "I'm Robert. Pleased to meet you."

She grasped his hand. "You are _not_ Robert."

"You're right. I'm thinking of keeping 'Alain,'" he chuckled. "After the war."

Could there ever be such a thing as 'after the war,' she wondered?

The tip came in just before Hans had hoped to leave the office, shortly after dark. What he'd been quietly dreading for weeks.

An anonymous report of a household sheltering Jews, in the west suburbs. He was to investigate at once.

As the black Mercedes hurried west, Hans lit a cigarette and watched the carcass of Paris recede in shadow. He had always felt he had an engine of his own, drawing on some everlasting power source to propel him forward, higher. There was no rank, no star, out of the reach of Hans Landa. Others bowed to him, and why shouldn't they? He had always sailed serenely past the rest of mankind, secure in his superiority.

Now, the engine within him roared, as always...but in a direction he could no longer control.

The cigarette ash dropped on Landa's coat, unnoticed.

He stepped from the car, surrounded by his men. Soldiers, hungry to obey. Unmoved by blood. All standing by for the slaughter.

Upstairs, there was a pale, fragile man with little hair, wiping his hands nervously. "Yes, Oberst," "Of course, Oberst," "Naturally, you must do your job, Oberst," "We certainly don't want to cause any trouble, Oberst," until Hans thought he would vomit.

An obviously hollow wall. A hilariously fake bookcase. The crack of a door visible, even, from the top of the bookcase. An insult to his intelligence.

Hans looked.

He saw figures huddled in the dark. Holding their breath. His eye met other eyes. He saw them, in their hiding place. They saw him seeing them.

And something within him came uncoupled, like the cars of a train. He felt his engine continue and leave another part of him behind.

He had been standing at the bookcase for so long the man behind him had begun to weep. Begging for mercy. Confessing his guilt.

"Nonsense," Landa snapped. "You have wasted enough of our time tonight."

"Oberst, I…I…don't understand"—

"Understand this much," he barked, shaking with something more violent than fury. "We will not tolerate false reports. Your petty squabbles with the neighbors are none of our concern. The SS will not come to this house to be toyed with again."

The man seemed to be in shock, gulping air like a fish, as Landa swooped out the door.

He came to a halt against the wall of the stairwell, a cold fist gripping his heart. What had he done? How would he face his men? Every part of him that had been light, hollow, easy, now filled with dread.

He held his hands out before him. They were shaking, badly.

He could still call out to his men. Send them up with their machine guns and do the job he was assigned.

Or he could shove his hands into his pockets and go home. To her.

Hans staggered down the remaining stairs. The choice had been made before he'd arrived. Before he'd even gotten the report.

As he returned to the night air, he almost expected their guns to be pointed at him.

"False report," he bellowed. "An utter waste of time." If they grumbled as they returned to their motorcycles, he didn't hear it. Above him, the sky glittered with stars, distant and cold.

The knock on her bedroom door gave Sylvia a start. Hans had never done that before. She considered pretending to be asleep, but surely he had seen the light under her door.

She was wearing only the little white nightie Hans had let her pick from a catalog. Oh well.

She opened the door.

His face was contorted in a way she'd never seen before. He stepped toward her, and pulled her into a hug so tight she almost choked.

"Hans," she breathed into his shoulder. "What happened?"

He pulled back to search her face, her eyes. She looked down uncomfortably.

"You have every right to be afraid of me, Sylvia," he finally said. "You're in the clutches of a monster."

"I…wouldn't say…'monster'…"

"You know what I've done," he nearly snarled. "The blood on my hands. And you so good… I don't deserve to touch you."

What could she say to that? He was a terrible, violent man, representing a hateful ideology. And no, he didn't deserve to touch her.

But…

Sylvia's heart and mind were at war, and something had to give. Which may be why, when his right hand, the same hand that had dispatched so many like her to their deaths, drifted to her face, she didn't flinch. His thumb traced her cheekbone. His fingers pushed into her soft hair. As her eyes finally, openly gazed into his at close range, electricity trailing his touch, the last of her resolve gave way.

Like a planet falling into orbit, she moved toward him. And they kissed.

They separated, each shuddering, hesitant. Then met once more.

His left hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her in closer as he deepened the kiss.

She finally pulled away, gasping. His lips then found her jawbone, her neck, her temple. And those hands, good god, those hands.

At last, he stepped back, leaving her panting, hungry. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Goodnight, Sylvia," he said gruffly. Then left, closing her door behind him.

_How the hell am I supposed to sleep after that?_ she thought.


	11. Distant Lights

Sylvia found herself learning a new alphabet: An 'accidental' brush of fingers in the hall. A shoulder squeeze as she sat reading. Prolonged contact in the passing of the sugar bowl, or the salt. The drift of a hand to her back, to her waist, when greeting or passing by. The gramophone muted in the ear pressed against his uniform. Lips on her temples. On her cheeks. On the back of her neck.

And today, a new addition: a quick goodbye kiss at the door, only their second mouth kiss since that night. Seemingly chaste, a comma in a run-on sentence neither had the nerve to punctuate.

Then she had stepped back, forcing herself to take him in, from the terrible Totenkopf on his cap, to the SS insignia on his lapels, the medals, the weapons, the jackboots. _I must take all of him in without flinching_, she thought. _I must step off this cliff with my eyes wide open. _

Sylvia was no fool. She knew a woman's love had never truly changed a man. But a man had the power to change himself. And Hans' actions dared her to hope.

"Do you recall what I said to you, the day you told me you wanted to join the SS?"

Gruppenführer Wilhelm Von Barenboim, an older man of aristocratic bearing, paused his slow strut around his offices to look back at Hans.

"You said, 'a man's destiny becomes his when he takes it,'" Hans recited.

"Correct," Barenboim continued, now moving to a decorative enamel globe. "Look at this globe, Landa. Imagine the future that awaits us Germans, that shining hour when Europe is cleansed of…"

Hans knew this spiel backwards and forwards. Knowing he had at least a minute or two to check out, his mind zipped back to that morning, in the foyer. Her, stepping forward to kiss him! Initiating contact! The light fragrance of her hair, the sweet flush on her cheeks. Her lips, so impossibly soft…then he was back in his superior's office –

_And here comes 'the glorious destiny of the Master Race,' _thought Hans.

"…to usher in the glorious destiny of the Master Race!" Barenboim concluded with a flourish. He was practically drooling with excitement. A dyed-in-the-wool fanatic of the old guard, or as old as it got for a party 20 years old.

"Landa, my boy-"

Hans expertly blinked away his irritation.

"—you moved up the ranks faster than any SS officer I can recall, and you have only made me prouder. You have used your talents well in service to Germany." A pause. "However…I am troubled by your performance, of late."

"My performance? I don't follow."

Barenboim strode slowly back towards him, finally sinking into the armchair opposite. "Landa, your arrests have fallen significantly in the past two months. It cannot be ignored."

Hans sighed. "I'm afraid my current operation will take many more weeks to complete, Gruppenführer. If I rush into arrests now, it will quite spoil the result."

The Gruppenführer made a dismissive hand motion. "Landa, far be it from me to question your methods, and I'm certain your work on the French Opposition is important. However, I have spoken with the Führer, and he agrees: we want our Jew Hunter back."

A stabbing sensation in Hans' gut.

"If you've kept up with my reports, surely you've noticed how few Jews are left to arrest! Most of the tips we get are now false, or based on old information. I can hardly be blamed for being too thorough."

Barenboim steepled his fingers. "I hear rumors you've lost enthusiasm for your work."

"Wherever could that have come from," he chuckled, beginning to sweat.

"Now, now, don't get defensive. I know your commitment to duty. Perhaps you've been working too hard. A vacation may be in order? Or even….marriage?"

Hans smirked. "Marriage? I thought you said you knew me."

Barenboim leaned forward. "Between you and me, it would look better if you married the girl."

"I beg your pardon?" Hans sputtered.

"I know, I know, she's not strictly suitable for an SS officer, but…for a man of your rank, the purity standards could be relaxed. You've had your fun, sowing your wild oats and all, but consider the example you set for young soldiers. She's beautiful, she's devoted to you! Put a ring on her finger, have children. We'll take care of the paperwork."

"_Have children?" _Hans heart was about to hammer out of his chest.

"Yes, children!" Barenboim was smiling broadly now. "You can do everything you do now, and go home to her after. Does that sound so bad?"

"Gruppenführer," Hans asked as steadily as he could. "Exactly which woman are you talking about?"

"Why, that Schubert girl of course. 'Mitzi.' The one hanging all over you at every function the last few years. Keep her at home, make her respectable."

Hans thought his head would fall off and roll across the floor. "I…will consider it."

The Gruppenführer stood, and shook Hans' hand vigorously. "Be sure to invite me to the wedding!"

Hans assured him he would, turned, left, heard the door close behind him, walked around the bend in the hallway, and nearly dry heaved on his own shoes.

With a rusty jangle of the door bell, Hans pushed his way into the tiny Librairie Yvette, toward the register, where a lanky young woman had propped her feet up on the desk.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle…"

She had dark eyes behind thick glasses. "Anne-Marie."

"Mademoiselle Anne-Marie, I am Standartenführer Hans Landa of the SS. Do you work here?"

Anne-Marie looked to one side, then the other, down at the register, back up to Landa. "Apparently."

He swallowed this impertinence behind a smile. "Mademoiselle, I have a few questions to ask you, and I wondered if there's somewhere private we could chat?"

She returned at her book. "Nope."

Hans leaned down to her level. "Mademoiselle, this is an urgent public security matter. I must speak with you at once, and I'd prefer to have the conversation in private."

Anne-Marie clapped the book shut. "Standartenführer Landa, there is no private room. We can either talk right here, or we can talk some other time."

He dusted off his most winning smile. "Then let's just talk here."

"Pull up a chair." Hans grabbed a rickety wooden chair and took a notepad from his coat pocket. As he prepared his fountain pen, she took out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

"Anne-Marie," he began. "I just have a few questions, nothing too invasive."

"Good," she grunted, twisting the end of the cig.

"First of all, were you working here the night of Thursday, 18th of March?"

"_Oui_."

He wrote this down.

"According to our sources, the bookshop closed rather early that evening. Hours before the posted time of 6pm. Is that correct?"

Anne-Marie struck a match and lit the cig. "_Oui._"

"Was there a reason for this deviation from the schedule?"

She took a long drag, closed her eyes, and exhaled. "Didn't feel good."

He paused. "What was that?"

"Didn't feel good," she repeated, louder.

"Did you confer with the owner of the bookstore about this? Yvette herself, perhaps?"

"Yvette?" Anne-Marie scoffed. "Not Yvette. Gavin. He said it was fine."

"The owner of this bookstore is someone named 'Gavin'?"

"Yep."

"Gavin…"

"I dunno. Just Gavin. I called him. He didn't care."

Hans wrote, _Gavin?_

"This Gavin, he doesn't work here at the bookstore with you?"

"Nope. He just owns it." She ashed in a filthy saucer on the desk.

"I see."

The clock ticked a few times.

"Anne-Marie, can you think back a little further for me? To the night of the 22nd of February? Where were you that evening?"

He had her full attention now. "I was here."

"Ah. Was it a quiet night?"

"I think so."

Hans nodded. "Then I supposed you must've been quite startled by the blast."

She cocked her head slightly and took another drag. "Yes, I was."

"What did you think it was?"

She blew the smoke out the side of her brightly-lipsticked mouth. "To be honest, I thought the Brits were coming."

He chuckled. "Were you frightened? The Café L'Etoile isn't far from here."

"Nah."

Hans closed up the notebook. "Just one more thing, and you can get back to your novel, Anne-Marie."

"Shoot."

"We're looking for a young woman named Greta Van Horn."

Hans watched her pupils dilate behind the glasses.

"She was found in the rubble of the café, but later escaped from our custody. Her trail has since gone cold." Hans lowered his voice conspiratorially. "We are offering a sizable reward for information on Greta's whereabouts, her background, anything we can use to find her. Furthermore, an arrangement could be made between the SS and your…company to ensure your safety, including papers and checkpoint clearance. Sacrifice one for the safety of all. I think that's more than fair, don't you?"

Anne-Marie sat for a moment, smoke curling from her cigarette. "That name doesn't ring any bells."

Hans fixed her in his gaze. "You're sure?"

She nodded.

Hans pushed out his chair, stood, and offered his hand. Anne-Marie stared at it.

"Ah." He dropped his hand. "In that case, good day, Mademoiselle." And left the bookstore.

Back in the car, he pulled out the notebook again and turned to a dog-eared page. There was a list of names. Underneath where he had crossed out 'Alain,' he crossed out the name 'Anne-Marie.'

A side effect of mandatory Occupation darkness was the sudden visibility of stars.

On the top floor of Hans' townhouse, there was a large skylight. And when her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see multiple points of distant light.

Sylvia lay on the floor under the skylight to gaze. She tried to conjure the sweet night air of her country childhood, crickets, rustling trees, cool grass.

"Sylvia? Are you up there?"

Hans must have emerged from his study. She felt silly, all of a sudden, laying on the floor staring at the sky.

"Sorry, I was just…"

Hans appeared at the top of the stairs. "Stargazing, are we?"

Sylvia started to get up.

"No, no, let me join you." Hans laid down on the floor himself, and patted the floor next to him.

She stretched out alongside him, an inch or so between their bodies. She laid her head on his arm.

Their hearts pounded wildly in the dark.

"They're all dead, Hans," she finally said. "The light we see is thousands of years old. Space could be as dark as Paris for all we know."

"Maybe not," he returned, close to her ear. He kissed the top of her jaw, then the ticklish side of her neck. She inhaled sharply.

Turning over, she met his lips, hungrily. His free hand explored the terrain of her body, tracing her spine, traveling the swell of her hip. When she pulled back, she found his eyes burning.

"Hans…I want to. I'm ready."

He stroked her cheek. "Not on the floor."

She giggled. "Take me to bed."

They stood, stiffly. She started to head downstairs to their bedrooms.

"Sylvia," he beckoned. "Undress here. I want to see you in the starlight."

Slowly, she stepped back under the skylight, lifted the cotton nightie over her head, and dropped it to the floor.

Hans' mouth fell open like a man in religious ecstasy. "Turn around."

Sylvia had never felt more seductive in her life. She turned, cocking her hip, peeking coyly over her shoulder like a pin-up.

Hans came to her, and his hands traveled everywhere they hadn't before in the faint, silvery light, appreciating the fullness of her breasts, the delicious softness of her ass.

"I've put on weight. I'm chubby now."

"I've noticed," Hans whispered, with an affectionate slap on her right buttcheek. "You're perfect."

One more kiss, more urgent. Then he stepped away, and down the stairs.

"Hans…"

"One moment," he called. Sylvia followed him, stopping in the doorway of his bedroom.

He was opening the blinds on every single window, exactly as all of Paris was forbidden to do after dark, and opening the windows as wide as they would go. The night rushed in, cool and wild, and moonlight made the waxed floors glow.

Clasping her hand in his, Hans led Sylvia to his bed.

Author's note: My apologies, when I started uploading this piece to FF, I didn't know explicit content wasn't allowed. I'll leave these chapters up for now but if you want to continue the story, it's under the same title on AO3 and Wattpad, updating about once or twice a week. Thanks for understanding!


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